Petrouchka Alexieva

Wakeup, Wake Up, My Heart!

Wakeup, wake up, my heart!

It’s not time to sleep

I am here, here, over here

Sitting on the chandelier!

O-o, this is an operation room light. 

It looks like unlanded UFO

Bursting rays towards my face.

In my case, seven minutes ago,

I was pronounced “dead”,

But I don’t want to go, my friend.

Wake up, wake up, my heart!

I can hear the jokes that doctors tell

About heaven and hell 

For their own entertainment.

I can hear the gossips they share - 

Who sleeps with whom, 

Who got a new car, 

A new lover, who got the flu

Or who still has a headache

From the last-night boos...

Colloquies. I understand.

Four and a half hours

Is a long run since they began

With scalpels and stitches in their hands.

So, they’re chatting 

About the last soccer game,

The Premier League Championship 

And the referee who was unfair.

Now, I know who got the silverware.

Four and a half hours of doctors’ mistakes!

Oh, I almost forgot that I am dead. 

On Monday? In May? No way!

The angels suppose to pick me up, 

But they are late. So, my dear heart,

We have some extra time.

What a start for a person with a tag:

With my name, my age and my time of dead. 

Am I really on the line to the …morgue?!

U-f-f-f…It’s getting cold!

Oh, no, no! No and no!

I want to dive back into my body.

I don’t want to be stack

On the freeway 

Between heaven and hell, 

Chatting from the top 

Of this fancy chandelier.

You, lazy heart, wake up! 

Wake up and start pumping blood

Like you run on the Olympic marathon!

Don’t you dare! Don’t leave me alone!

Wake up my heart!

It’s too early for me to visit Saint Peter’s shack.

With St. Peter’s Interns - Trust the Process

I’ve got company in the divine elevator

With two of St. Peter’s interns.

Two silent angels 

Supposed to bring me to heaven.

I was sure, I deserved

The furnace down there, 

In the flaming basement.

A-ha! I was told it was a tunnel.

Hell no! I was lifted up

Thinking: “O-oh, what if 

I get stack in between two levels

In this holy skyscraper.

It happened before. I was returned

To my small earthy life

Not once, but twice.

O-oh, Divine Angels!

Help me out this time,

Lift me up straight to heaven

Or drop me from above

 - I don’t mind, 

But don’t stack me again 

With a claustrophobic guy.

He was swearing, 

Then he begged hell and heaven

Not to die. Then he cried, 

Then he grabbed my skirt to stay in touch

With a human soul (At least he said so) 

While biting his fingers

And weaving his knees on the floor.

He glued to my legs and tried

To express his fear.

I just wanted to disappear

When he hugged me so tied;

I thought I might completely die

From suffocation. Then he began

Hiding behind my back for protection

He opened my little umbrella

To stop the ceiling to fall from above.

Hey you, St. Peter’s interns,

I trust you, but promise me 

– This time no more returns;

No ups and downs or any confusion.

I trust the process and I have no illusion. 

Just bring me… where I deserve.